Them (Single draft attempt)

Another year goes by, and I ain't feelin' any older,

The world outside, is just getting colder...

I'm more afraid now – more than I have ever been,

Lord, be with me, Lord, be with me...

As I look back on the January days of my life I have lived, I see many flaws in my character. My admission here serves as a disclaimer for my lack of experience on this subject – I speak as someone unaccustomed to loss, unfamiliar with conflict, with full trust remaining in most everyone that I have met and without fear of any of the above. In short, I am inexperienced with life – nearly everyone older than I has met with these things above, and has in my opinion allowed these things to change them for the worse. However, my experience usually shows that age breeds wisdom, and thus I must ask forgiveness of my elders here if my words seem harsh and unyielding. If you consider me incorrect, then please consider it merely the wide-eyed optimism or cynicism that comes with youth.

Today I speak of division. It seems bred into me from a young age, whenever I go anywhere, to another community – the usage of the word irks me, but I plod on – whenever I see a stranger, whenever I judge another person – there's that word again – whenever I watch the news about another nation's qualms – I cannot help but use this word! - I see, the word, another.

Another nation, another people group, another ethnicity, another political party, another family, another family member... them. This word grates at me, I wish I could only allow it out for its simple and un-connotated meaning, to denote a second item, being spoken about in third person, much like one would relate one box to a pile of boxes - “oh, put that package along with the others. We'll sort them later.” This word, and its meaning, have been used to much wider cultural meanings, to speak about that person, or that child, or that people group. The mere mention of that, or them nowadays subconsiously triggers whatever images of division to pop into my head – a grey plane separating into equal parts black and white, a group of people shunning another...

The inspiration for this piece directly was a Facebook image I saw that boasted, “Homeless servicemen should come before any refugee”. I responded to the tone of, “Why should someone who chose war be selected above one whom war was put upon them? The serviceman has a home to return to, the refugee has left theirs burning to dust.” I was told that the servicemen are our friends, our family, our people, and thus should take precedence over... them. I was told, and was compelled by, the other Middle Eastern countries haven't taken in the people that undoubtedly would have more in common with these refugees than Americans would, and would integrate them better. But still... them. Them sucks. Them is an ugly word.

I propose the image: on the global scale, there is a veteran and a refugee sitting on our lawn, starving to death. Which do you take in?

The Parable of the Good Samaritan in scriptures would be useful as a starting point for my answer. For those who do not know it, Jesus is asked “who is our neighbor?” and responds thus: A man walking along the road is set upon by bandits, beaten within an inch of death, stripped and left for dead. A priest and a pharisee separately walk by, walking to the other side of the road to avoid the unclean man. A Samaritan walks up and instead helps the man onto his pack animal and takes the man to an inn, where he pays a handsome amount for the innkeeper to watch after the man and nurse him to health. Jesus says then, “Which of these is your neighbor?” (or something to that tune, it's midnight, I’m not going to bother checking the exact wording on the seventh most famous story in the Bible)

Now, I would imagine that in this hypothetical world Christ conjured, the Samaritan in question was regarded strangely by his fellows. “Why would you help them?” they would ask. For, Israelites and Samaritans were not friends at the time. The Israelites, if memory serves me right, considered the Samaritans to be unwashed barbarians, and Samaritans understandably did not enjoy the comparison. The priest and pharisee, they can be forgiven, can they not? For, to have helped the dying man would mean days or ritual cleansing of the unclean blood from their contact with the man.

Of course, today we regard the Samaritan with praise, and I would say that is what Christ is hoping for. The Samaritan broke down the them. He put them on his pack animal, took them to the inn, cleaned them with his own hands, and paid for them to be looked after handsomely. The parallel I draw is that this them is the same them as the refugee is today. Israel had a problem with poverty, with war, with sickness, just as we do today. Samaria probably did as well. But the Samaritan saw a present need (there's a man bleeding out here) above and beyond the constant need (there are members of my community that need assistance) and fulfilled it. This was Christ's answer to, “Who is my neighbor?”

Back to the refugee. A man in the Middle East can no longer be considered too far removed from our own culture. You read this on a monitor made in Taiwan, with a plastic or metal frame made in China, likely sitting on a furniture item (or within sight of a furniture item) made in Poland or France, driving a car from a manufacturer based in Japan, which takes oil from the UAE and SA, thinking about your British friend and her Turkish husband. We are all connected.

So what do we do? We cannot say, “I would take the serviceman in and leave the refugee to die,” neither can you allow the refugee in and leave the serviceman to die. Certainly there must be an error in this assumption, for in this hypothetical we wish nobody to die. Perhaps we could take them both in? One would have the guest bedroom, the other can take the couch. But which would take which? Would they take turns? Such lack of stability would be harsh on them (consider that in this global hypothetical, the bedroom is in Texas and the couch is in Alabama. Quite a bit of movement!), and I wouldn't ask that of them. Perhaps the homeowner could take the couch, but then the uprooting of the home would be severely taxing on the homeowner, and this person would be less able to care for the serviceman and refugee.

This post gives no answer to the above hypothetical, it is only an exercise in thought. On to my suggestion: expand your us. If you have your circle of family, expand it. Find extra room for more people in your heart. We are all kept to a certain level of us. Come consider us to be the nuclear family, others the extended. Us can mean to you, your friend circle, your local municipality, your state, your culture. I try to consider every person I meet one of us. It is difficult, and I fail – I see a person who looks Asian, or a person who looks Middle Eastern, and I initially jump to the thought they are different. It is only when the conscious enters that I see we carry the same skeleton, the same heartbeat, the same human foibles, and soften again. It is a subtle racism that I identify and struggle with. In years to come I hope I have no such inconsistencies with my handling of strangers.

In short, the more people your consider inside of your us circle, the more compassion you have for the whole of humanity. The whole of humanity needs more us. Consider helping a serviceman in need through veterans charities, and giving to refugee assistance in the brutal Summer of horrors blazing through the Middle East. There is the opportunity to introduce yourself to a complete stranger as a Samaritan, and become that stranger's us.

In Defense of the Firsts

I've been wanting to make this post for a little over two years now, and I finally have enough words to make it salient. This would be one of the “Things I wish I could tell myself five years ago” bits.

My recent job with UPS gave me a large amount of firsts, which I have no small shame in admitting I am late to experiencing. I was a Driver Helper, which meant that I would be the legs of the individual package delivery car, whilst my driver was the wheels and brains. I had my first physical overexertion, my first dependence on my own making of meals, my first experience with “customers”, my first avoiding mauling my a dog, my first understanding of a global enterprise, my first appreciation of my strength and the strength of machinery, and my first reliance on set breakfast consumption.

I list all of these firsts to show a maturation. A few years ago, I noticed a large barrier to my success was trusting myself to carry out the task. I was a millennial Da Vinci: I never finished anything because I didn't have faith in my own abilities. Even now, I can count on both hands the initiatives I started in the last five years and never carried to completion. These shames can cripple one's want to step out once again onto the shaky limb of initiative. The brain remembers all guilts and embarrassments, and it is good that it does. These can become lessons, but often they become tombstones. Let me give an example.

One instance occurred in the Summer between my Senior or Junior year of high school. We were at a beach retreat and I heard a calling from God during the session inside. I ran out onto the beach, onto my knees and looked up. I saw all seven sisters of Pleiades – cementing my understanding that I was being contacted by the Holy. God commanded me to do X. I subconsciously inflated that to 2X, without realizing it, and said “you want 2X? I'll give you 20X!” Since you never saw me in the news, you can rest assured that I failed that calling.

Since that failure, I have had a deep-seated insecurity with my own word. My promise was very rarely given, and every initiative I started was met quickly with the cynic in my mind, callously declaring my failure at every turn. I started dialogues with this cynic, and we are good friends.

I recently assumed a pragmatic mannerism about this, though: if I am to excel in this world, or even survive, I must confront this insecurity. How can my words be made trusted by he who speaks them? How can the porn addict, who says “I am free!” one day, and the next night, “I am in shackles!”, ever begin the harsh journey to holiness? How is he to hear the calm voice of hope call through the morass of cynicism which has such a bed in his heart?

You see, when one cannot trust one's mind to honor one's word, one becomes mistrusting of oneself. Much like you would become untrusting of your right leg if it were to be constantly going numb on you. The leper knows not if his or her arms will do as he or she says, and is thus fearful to trust them.

Looking at the alternatives of suicide or breakthrough, it took a short inquiry to understand that the latter was the amicable choice; I am not ill, merely confused. So, I needed a ledger of things I followed through on, that I succeeded in. A ledger stacked against the perceived failures, to outweigh and topple them. My cynic needed evidence of my promise. And so, I sought out these firsts. Many of which I have yet to complete, but every small first puts me closer to overpowering these shames. If not the quality of the firsts, then the quantity thereof will be my sandbags against this storm.

Never stop seeking firsts, friends. Failures are also firsts. Every thing that you do is a first in some way, and gives you further reason to further contribute, and to further discover more firsts. It is either this or the morass of hopelessness – a pool from which I drink from time to time, just to ponder its vacuousness. We as humans are too important to waste too much time, however, on the pondering of the hopeless. God gave us too much potential. We must merely convince our hearts of that truth, which is likely among humanity's greatest struggles.

I could probably add more to this, and I likely will. I find my best writing comes in my sleeplessness, and tonight's is thanks to the dryer which neglected to dry my sheet.  

Lilly

I've made friends with a person in Guild Wars 2 who is autistic and has Down Syndrome. She's also epileptic. It's a strange and humbling experience. I get the opportunity to feed into her, to answer her questions, be patient with her confusion and be her friend. Video games are one of the few places where her physical hindrances don't hamper her ability to be normal as much. She always speaks in the third person, and only uses simple words.

Today, a friend in my guild (a system built into the game to allow a smaller, tighter community to be built around each other, with its own channels of communication and shared rewards) blocked all chat from her, so that he wouldn't have to listen to her or her simple English and lack of quick understanding. The best thing I could say to her was, “perhaps he just needs a break from Lilly for a while!”, and it felt like such a cop-out.

I am angry for this man's disregard of her – his rejection of her for her simple speech and lack of understanding. I understand, though: The eloquence in the words written here would confuse her. To help you understand, I will attempt to write the rest of this so that she can understand it.

Our brains all have problems. Nobody's brain is perfect. Big, important people say her brain has more problems than other people. I don't agree. A brain isn't more not-right because the person who owns it can't talk as well with other people. My ability to speak well means nothing. My brain's broken in other ways. I can't see into the mind of another person, but I know that every other mind is amazing. Every mind has the most amazing story inside. It doesn't make a difference whether one mind can speak its story to other minds. We all deal with very tough problems in our minds as well as our bodies.

But this doesn't change the fact that this friend of mine can tell she is less good at communication. She still finds herself confused at the humor in guild chat, still has trouble playing the game. The difficulty is in slowing down to her pace. I heard from a friend this past week about pacing. A father and his son are walking from their house to his first day of school. The father walks normally, and the son is breathing heavily. The dad looks at him and says, “What's wrong?”, to which the son replies, “Dad, I can't keep up with your walking!” The father slows down, because he knows his son needs to be at a slower pace then. With her, that slow pace is seemingly never-ending.

I heard from elsewhere that a person who is autistic, or with Down Syndrome, is simply a version of us that's more humble. That doesn't help her, to simply tell her she's humble – it's a suggestion that we should consider them to be so. To be kind. Again, this doesn't help to explain to her. And autism doesn't seem to have an explanation, or at least not a satisfactory one. It doesn't change our prerogative, to love justice, seek mercy and walk humbly. We don't know all the mind's natures: perhaps an autistic person has the most fantastic mind: the areas that are damaged in an autistic person leave room for the other areas to grow further.

I think of the three, humility is the most important part of communicating and relating to an autistic person. The communicative skills of a child remind us that we were once so low – and the fragility of our own, seemingly impregnable minds.  

The Chairman (Or, The Cathedral's Victory)

A chairman closes the doors to the Generic First Small Southern Reformed Baptist Church of Bumpkinville and locks them for the last time; faced with debt they could not repay and a failing ministry, the congregation stayed until the last service. Heartfelt goodbyes were said as the community of twenty wondered where they would go next. In their heyday their ministry centered around going to college campuses and proclaiming Christ's justice and the necessity of repentance, and for these years their only source of encouragement was each other and Christ Himself.


The chairman sighed as he looked over the building, its roof sagging under the weight of neglect, its walls and windows cracked and unrepaired. The last ten years had been frightening, as the community watched their building's various accouterments languish away – initially a light fixture in a corner nobody went in, but then the water fountain broke, then the sound system. The summers had been especially brutal, as the air conditioning system simply couldn't keep pace with the swelter outside. Rev. Pastor IV followed with the same fire as his father, inspiring the congregants more and more. The chairman, the youngest on the board, came to the church because it was the only SSRBC in the area, but admitted to his family he felt out of place in the building. He had much greater views as to what the building could be used for, and how to reach out, but the other chairmen denied him due to his youth; he was the man who did the paper work. The congregants were thankful for his work, but never gave him deference.


A tear came to his eye when he recalled the time one of the congregants found freedom from alcoholism. She had been plagued by the issue for much of her life, and was finding it increasingly difficult to live normally. The pastor, a usually aggressive and boisterous man, walked into the room where the chairman was comforting her and sat down, telling her how Christ had given him freedom in his sexual addiction and drug dependency in the 70's. The chairman thought it sounded trite, rehearsed; he had heard a bit of the pastor's story before, and this followed what he said, but the chairman didn't think the man was helping. He was surprised, then, when the woman broke into tears, saying that the pastor said exactly what she needed to hear. She embraced the man, and they both cried into each other.


The chairman was perplexed; this one memory was the only happy moment he could remember as this church. Worship was a drag every week for him, every week for the last eight years since he stopped feeling anything in it. He kept thinking about that memory, and wondered what it was. He never heard God, aside from that one time when he came to Christ, but he needed to ask the question,


“Why did this place exist, God? These people lived for you, and you let this place languish away in disrepair. Their ministry was saving people left and right. So many people have been saved by what the pastor's said at services. Why am I happy this place is finally gone, and why do I feel so hollow?”


The silence dragged on for hours, as the chairman sat on the front steps to the decrepit building and the sun sank below the horizon. He had faded into sleep, and dreamt of the church. God was there, sitting next to him. The chairman balked and babbled, trying to find words to say. The Almighty chuckled and put a finger on his mouth, silencing him with a slight, comforting hush sound. He smiled and said, “It is time to repair the Church, my beloved.”


The Savior of the World then beckoned the chairman to follow Him around the building; its ancient stucco and brick hodgepodge showed its age, as cracks rent open long ago as vines pushed in and broke them apart further. Jesus began to grip each brick individually and strongly, His muscles pulling and shoving against His skin blatantly. Starting in the very corner, the Redeemer moved each brick into its original position, cleaning and remaking them to be as-new. This process went on as the days blew past in the dream, hours eating away. The chairman thought nothing would sound valid in the face of all the Glory shining before him, and had began mumbling the start of sentences, only to be cowed by his own uncertainty. El Shaddai looked up from His work, knowing what the chairman wanted to say, and said, “Speak, beloved; I am here for you, and rejoice in your dialogue.”


The chairman, still very uncertain, stammered, “God... gracious Savior... Why are you repairing this building? The congregants are all gone, the building's bankrupt and worthless. We've failed you.”


“A great question, but I know there is more you need to say, child. Speak your mind, heir,” the Almighty spoke.


“I don't wish to speak ill of You in front of You... but where were You when this church needed funds? Our ministry was bringing people to You, Heavenly Father, we loved you! And yet, this building was allowed by You to degrade and languish, the congregation was allowed by You to diminish and shrink, the ministry was allowed by YOU to become less and less potent, and die. We did Your work, why did You allow all this to die? We were bringing dozens to YOU! And now we're dead!”


“Child, there is much to learn. Here, help me in my work. I believe this part we both need to work on to usher it to completion.” The Almighty took the chairman's hands to the glass shards on the lowest window, and together the Savior and the chairman pushed the shards out into the center; the glass joined seamlessly, extra glass coming from the edges of the cracked pane. The chairman understood what he was doing, and got to repairing the lowest areas with this new found ability of his. He was lost in it, and soon He and the Father had completed all they could reach on the floor.


The chairman left and came back with a ladder, but dropped it when he saw Elohim knelt down on the wall... on the wall. The chairman walked up surprised and asked for an explanation. “I turned water to wine, walked on water, and defeated the grave. I am not made accountable to gravity, beloved,” He said, smiling as he returned to the work on the upper windows. The chairman joined Christ again in His work.


“There is something you need to know, child. I know you feel the ministry at your community was less effective than it needed to be, and I know why. You looked to the ministry for the saving and the ability, but you never looked to Me. Your church ends at these bricks and mortar, but I am here to expand your view. Come, that's the last brick. Very well done; let's go inside and deal with the rafters and insulation.”


Entering the church, the chairman was taken aback; it was in much worse disrepair than he left it, just the day before. “All will be made known in time, love,” Elyon explained, then picked up the parts of a pew that had fallen apart. The two helped each other piece together the sawdust and tattered hymnals as The Alpha and Omega continued:


“These pews don't seem to have been sat in, in quite a very long while. Look, this brochure is from 1993”, I AM said as He passed the brochure over. It struck the chairman deep when he looked it over; he remembered this one well. It was a very hot July day, and the pastor (then Rev. Pastor III) was inflamed in greater passion than the chairman had seen before in his life. But the chairman wasn't listening. He just didn't feel anything in the pastor's sermons anymore. But the church needed him desperately, so he stayed. He wrote on the brochure, “God be with this church”.


Tears came again to the man's eyes as he glared at the Creator and said, “Why? You torture me with this reminder of the failure of you and the church.”


“Child, you still don't see. Here, up on the rafters. Those lights need replacing. That church indeed was integral to my plan in this city, and it has run its course. But my work is not done. I'm not interested in the churches that you can build and house. I'm here for the global one, you understand that, I know you do.”


“Oh Maker, why then did you plan for this church to die? This city only has one. Now it has none,” the chairman said.


“You still don't understand, child. Your church is not dead. The people who went to the church you just closed may not come back, but they are saved because of my presence in that church. Nothing said in that building that effected someone else was spoken by humans, but by Me through them.”


“So You give the saving, and not the pastor. Yes, I understand. But why have I never thought of that before? It seems like I know this, and it's common knowledge, yet I’ve never put it into words,” the chairman said, pausing in his thoughts.


“It is a mystery My children deal with, that they have things set in their minds without thinking, and things of profound nature stay just below the surface. There we go, this looks like a proud temple again. Come child, let us go back outside. There is something you need to see.”


The chairman and the King of Kings went back outside,the chairman babbling about his recent epiphany. “So, the whole world is Your cathedral, and You are the only one who saves, and there's no ministry who has that ability, but it is You and You alone who carries that, and it's not me or the pastor who saves people, but it's You through he and I...” the chairman continued as he and the Divine Being ascended the church again. As they walked on the wall, the chairman didn't notice the unusually high wall until they were well past where the wall should end.


He stopped and looked down. The red, faded brick was now golden; a facade of such glory as he has never seen before. The chairman and the Almighty sat on the top of the facade as the chairman took in the rest of the building. Several kitchens, fully stocked; rooms for people to sleep in if they fall on hard times; a sanctuary of such regal stature as to elicit praise upon entering; all in the open air, for there was no threat of weather ruining what God had built. A mighty cathedral on a foundation wrought from the most glorious bedrock, pure marble laced with gems of every sort.


The chairman spent days remarking and praising the Lord for His work in him, then looked at the horizon and stuttered. “Lord, Great Almighty Jesus, My Liege... what are those?” he asked.


The things in question were shambling to and fro; a blown-out window here, a shattered door there, pine straw everywhere. They fluttered like rain-soaked leaves in a slight wind. Wails reverberated around the chairman's cathedral, bouncing off the gilded walls. It was a horror to see. The Almighty's face fell.


“My cathedral in you is now so luxurious, you do not recognize what you once were. These shambling masses are what I see My people as, every day. You and I started on My cathedral in you such a long time ago, but you stopped letting Me in. These people haven't called upon Me yet to build in them until they are complete; that is why I have come to you, My child – you have a mission. Your cathedral has been built, now it must shine. Here,” the Almighty produced a light from within His chest, “The bell tower on the north side. Light it, child.”


The chairman took the light, carrying it gingerly to the tower, placing it in its cradle. The Creator said, “It's a shame this is all a large metaphor, but I had to say it in a way you'll understand. I am with you, child. But know that it is My work in you that must be brought to completion in your life, not your work in others. I've given you this cathedral; come back to me and we will maintain it. Go, my child, and shine.”


the chairman awoke on the steps of the church; the same decrepit building as before. He didn't know what was to become of his life, but he knew he was no longer worried about its direction. He went back home, to his single bedroom apartment, and looked for another church in the region. There was a more recent building put up near to his apartment, and he went that Sunday. He was not content to watch with apathy as this church languished, but he would do everything he could to be a conduit for the Spirit. He was still very young, but he already felt significance and victory in his stead.


For God doesn't measure victory in the building's revenue, but in the community's growth. And God was going to build a mighty cathedral in everyone, this chairman knew.



He just knew. 

In Defense of the Pursuit

A long piece, and one that has been simmering in my head for quite a while, shaping my day-to-day life. It pertains quite specifically to the masculine nature, which I feel I’ve been missing for much of my life. In my choices in life, I've left danger and uncertainty to others, ascribing instead to vent my ideologies and understandings to the abstract – so that nobody can directly challenge my knowledge or understanding. This has led me to be quite amateur in the standard masculine field of experience – not devoid of any particular skill (though I lament the inability to wield and understand many heavy and light tools, and have a myriad of skills I am devoid of knowledge of), but rather an innocence in the field altogether. Much like a child initially shies away from things, I've developed a deep-rooted sense of security in pacifism.


In short, I saw the masculine nature of danger and responsibility and became frightened with it. I hid – and because I was quite amazing at avoiding responsibility, I excelled at hiding. I don't know how, but at any possible moment in my childhood that responsibility beckoned, I saw it as the possibility of mistake and cried “begone!” and hid.


In later years, I subconsciously realized this fear – and parodied it in my life. Instead of hiding and being afraid of people (who were a prime source of responsibility and possibility of failure), I took a farcical approach to my fear: if I was afraid of people thinking me a failure, I would let down all preconceptions and portray myself as the failure. I would be the savior of the outcast by being happy to be the outcast.


I wasn't a very intelligent young boy.


Here I had a deeply rooted fear of challenge, and a misconception that my belittling would be my freedom. This persisted through half my high school career, then I learned about achievement. Professor Otieno was the Computer Science teacher at the school, but to me he was so much more. If you want to sign up for a computer class and have life lessons bestowed on you as an added bonus, this man will give that. In the four years at Mount Pisgah, this man's imbued me with the self-confidence that I desperately needed – but never knew I did. He was very blunt; whereas other professors did not feel the need to invest in a student's mental complications, Mr. O reveled in embracing my social ineptitude and was a source of consistent and profound comfort and support. He would always tell me to think more of myself, and he will always rank among the most influential people of my life. I get the feeling his and my lives are not yet through influencing each other, and I am anxious for the day he can continue to influence me.


This is all to say that though I missed out on much of my developmental understanding in the social field, one thing was not lost: self confidence. Were it not for Mr. O (and various other titans in my life), I would not have structured my self-worth on something other than worldly things.


So high school ended, and I found myself alone. I picked up project after project, each new one challenging myself. I found life in these challenges – finally the ineptitude of my youth was being addressed in the Spring and Summer of my collegiate years. It was in these years that I came to a realization: in my youth, I had no pursuit.


A man requires a pursuit: that's one of the many reasons Christ is so appealing to me. My pursuit for Him ends with my last breath, and so he will always be a source of life for me. A man's pursuit is his life source. A project is a source, and I've engaged in many. Every project I start challenges me, and I’ve yet to finish many of them. My current project is also my most expansive, and most daunting: a narrated storyboard, utilizing animated images in an aesthetic manner to provide an engaging story. I'm alive with this pursuit now, but I know it won't last. This is not an end, but a means to an end.


A man needs pursuit. I lust for that pursuit. Pornography isn't a pursuit. Porn is the opposite – you sit, and it comes to you. Porn is the taste of orange juice and milk in my mouth, because every time I look at it, I stick another knife in my pursuit. I stick another knife in my love, in my passion, in my Jesus.


Porn, and all other sins, also damages your woman. That singularly spectacular woman that Christ Created and placed on Earth, weaving your and her life together intentionally, as if to say, “My child, here is your pursuit; this is the passion I have placed in this world for you to lust after, as I lust after you. Pursue her, as you and I pursue one another.”


I hate that porn has been in my life, and still slings to me. Because of unrighteous lust, I have been clouded. I cannot trust myself to pursue a woman, because the responsibility of such a pursuit daunts me. I have thought myself able to pursue, and been shamed into admitting I am not.


But I will not end this on a depressing note. Instead, I stand currently hopeful and expectant of freedom. I wake every day telling myself the best day of my life is today, and since then, I’ve been raising the bar on the best day of my life every day of my life. The pursuit of love and God is not dead, friends. Find a pursuit, something you are daunted by. Do it. Engage, pursue, and let that pursuit drive you.


Because a man without a pursuit is a lion in a cage. Eventually, the lion doesn't think he's a lion anymore. The lion is dangerous, and so it it kept in the cage. A lion in a cage, however, is not a lion; this large, prideful animal is not large, or prideful. The pursuit in its eyes has drowned in the drab of its cage. It longs for the plains it cannot remember.



This lion has its key, but it feels powerless – not being able to lunge, it doesn't know how; not being able to prowl, to hunt, to pursue... it forgets how and thinks it cannot. And this lion, should it be set free, will go awry many times. It may die in its pursuit. But in dying, the lion will die knowing it is a lion. Brothers, the pursuit awaits.

Think of Nothing but the Shivering of Your Soul Against the Cold.

Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.


From the fire, you were born,
The heat comforts you as you bask in the warm,
Your parents teach you much, and much they warn,
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
A strange urgence and once you ignore,
For learning is to be done and understanding to bore,
Independence is a light on a city, and you soon ignore,
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
You are largely alone, you feel a sliver of warm abating,
You think it not harsh and keep on changing,
A girl soon finds your eyes and a coldness is weighting,
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
This girl stoke your fire and feed your flame,
This cold you felt of loss and fear, she will make lame.
Yes, a romance is what is missing in your game!
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
Her sex is amazing, but a coldness creeps in,
you're hearing a howling against the bedsprings' din,
you look up and see the frost spin...
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
Indeed, her body wafts less of that glorious heat,
With each kiss, her magic continues to wean...
This girl is not sating you, a chill comes to scream.
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
Another will fill it, how about ten on a screen?
But being alone lets the chill surge into your stream!
You find another girl, but she is not keen to the screen -
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
You seek another body to keep you warm at night,
But the perversion makes you afraid to let intimacy be nigh -
For what if you want your girl to be another actress to porn's blight?
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
You shiver every day, but hold fast alone -
This burden is for you to carry and atone,
Will God forgive if you celibize to your grave?
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
You know a woman will not warm you, but the frost bites,
Your soul shrivels as you find hopelessness in its might,
You think of your legacy, and how it will be thrown from light;
Think of nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
You recall your parents' urgence, and understand the message:
You thought not of your soul until the cold set a shiverage.
You are held back from your purpose and design by a grip:

Lust.

Think nothing but the shivering of your soul against the cold.
You will find a warmth in the hope of the Eternal Fire Bold.
I find victory in a fire that will engulf this little world;
I find freedom in a Savior that proclaims hope into my hold.
I find Him in the intervention of His placing men into my mold.
I find a community of support to tackle the hell of sin on Earth.
I find peace, love, understanding, breakthrough... and worth.

The Oak and the Mangroves: A Cautionary Tale

A tropical storm rages off of Florida's coast – the outer arms of its impeding torrents and slip winds curl just shy of the storm as the waves churn more fierce – much like the first voices decrying persecution and awaiting the resounding chaos of those who take up their banner. These waves are the cavalry, sweeping away any animal or sprout small and unfortunate enough to be caught in its pull. A single Oak stands on this shore, embedded in a rock older than the shore itself – the granite older than the grains of sand which finally exposed it to the sun – standing obstinate against the waves. Its roots have dominated the rock, much like a man dominates his theology. Its trunk is battered, with many scores and cuts from the flotsam of the waves.


As the tree overlooks its newest adversary, it is reminded of the historic storms it survived when younger; though every year melds together, it and its friends were contented to stand against the storms, crying out in the gale for the storms to stop. Their numbers were thinned, and he was left alone – the strongest Oak in the world. Its trunk several feet thick and its limbs reaching vast and unyielding, the tree braces for the impacts.


Elsewhere further down the coast, a single Mangrove looks to the storm with bravery. If the Mangrove was alone, it would indeed have need to be frightened; much like any normal human, this Mangrove understands that he cannot stand against much alone. Its roots are wide and deep, but being so deep in the water leaves him exposed. But he is not afraid.


As the wind pushed him toward the shore, and the waves push him up, his roots drag and brace against his reason for bravery: the same rock the Oak has pierced and rooted deeply into, the Mangrove has dug into as well, though this rock has not been shown the sun lately. The wind pushes him back, and as he sways, his sister behind him holds him – as does the three other brothers around her, and the ten behind them, and the fifty behind them, leading to a swamp of Mangroves extending for miles. He is emboldened further by this community.


The first wave hits, and engulfs all the forward trees. Their leaves rip away, and the wave pierces through to the later ranks. However, as it cuts through the trees, each tree absorbs a certain portion of the wave's power, completely subduing the rage of the sea. It is not time for celebration, for there are more waves, and fearsome winds, to face in short time.


The storm hits in fierce bitterness, howling against the Mangroves. All of them are embedded in the granite beneath, and the waves are mollified and proven ineffective against the trees of the rock, standing together. The Mangrove in the front was broken off in the waves, thrown back through its brothers and sisters, and goes flying with the wave. It is in a panic, and reaches out for help, for the community it once loved. As the wave is crushed, the Mangrove sweeps in with the swell into another group of Mangroves; it grafts with the network of roots and branches in time, but it is safe against the storm – connected to the rock underneath by the trees surrounding him.


The storm is gone inland now, and the sister of the uprooted Mangrove is reminded of the Oak that he spoke of; she looks down the shore in its direction, and quickly averts her gaze. The Oak indeed lived a strong life, but in its will to prove itself against the storms of its life, it bit into the rock, crushing and warping it, until it no longer was the rock it knew as a young sapling. The Oak faltered in the storm; its trunk burst apart under the weight of the wind against its proud branches and the waves against its length.


The canopy was nowhere to be seen, but the trunk was a legacy of violence. The scored and gnarled length was on its side, its top a shredded mass of splinters and sap. The rock it so tightly clung to and never wavered from cracked and fractured, bursting apart predictably – but unthinkable to the oak. Its wreckage was all over the shore, and the waves came in to pull away the dust of the rock, to bring back to the sea.


Occasionally this dust would make it over to the Mangroves, and the sea would ask, “Is this not your rock, which your copse so tightly clings to?”


The Mangroves respond, “That dust does not belong to my rock; our rock gives us strength through each other. None of us claim to own the rock, or be more tight into the rock, and yet all of us are embedded.”



Don't be an Oak. This God doesn't need you to prove something, He needs you to stand against the storm. This analogy is not perfect, because obviously trees cannot uproot and go to sea, but let us assume that the sea's mercurial nature suffices that defect in the analogy.

A Post that Applies to You 1/365 Days of the Year

I am 20 years old today, in the... Gregorian, Julian, Persian, Indian Civil and Hebrew Calendars. I'm 21 in the Islamic calendar.... I've seen 247 full moons, and 7,305 days.


It took me a long while to become at peace with my birthday being so close to Christmas - simply being near to this holiday means I miss out on the simple joy of a birthday party of any regular scheduling. I celebrated my seventeenth birthday party along with the prior three years' (which I had forgotten to celebrate) in June two years ago.


It is very much a difficult thing to talk about, because the humility culture I was raised in told me not to complain about my birthday being shafted by the birth of our Lord and Savior. Thus I kept silent about many of my misgivings, and I can attribute a great deal of my cynicism to the fact that, since my birthdays were always lesser affairs, I was quickly disillusioned to the thought of celebration. Or, perhaps the correct phrase is “I was quickly turned off...” no matter.


Thus, my birthday's always been spent being the most corporately awake with the rest of my family on any given day, with no party, while other people have parties and revelries on their own days. Thus, as an outsider looking in on these celebrations, I must make a quite apt observation of the moment.


Observe the average person celebrating their own birthday. It seems that they are celebrating themselves, but in reality many of my friends are celebrating the fact that God gave them breath and charged them with the task of spreading the Gospel. But, as with practically any good thing God intends, we (and by “we”, I intend to accuse the average celebrant; if you feel this does not apply to you, then by all means drop this accusation from your offense) quickly make it more garish, lavish, and selfish. No longer is God in the picture, but simply.... “me”.



I will change my scope to another target, to avoid playing the “selfish world” fiddle again, as its strings are so overplayed as to make its melody cliché. My birthday this year will be mostly spent with the fine people at Passion City Church. Serving alongside them as we park, guide and lead people to and in worship. I think this will be a quite fantastic day, precluding an equally fantastic year, friends.

Suffering, and the Video Game effect

Today a frustrating concept came to mind, considering the suffering and pain in this world – specifically, that wrought by one human upon another. The Boston Marathon bomber was found rather fast, and his demographic was sadly what I was expecting: nineteen, white. Several images flashed to mind, most of them of the way violence is portrayed in the media. Then I hit a roadblock; surely CNN and Fox news do not portray violence in a good light. Thus, I cut out a great portion of people from my search; most people's perusal of the media ends with the big news outlets. Let's say 25% of America only sees violence in a negative light – the elderly, executives, and more sensible of the population (of which I don't count myself part of).

I then further delineated the sources of “positive” violence – comic humor is often slapstick (though the sickening violence portrayed often is dulled by the artist's brush), video game action gets more and more graphic with every new generation of gaming, and practically every major television pundit has humor many would deem unwise to display on their network.

Another clarification was then needed; what separated me and the roughly 330 million Americans from the small amount of horrifying monsters we call murderers? All of the examples I brought up are engaged with by millions of people an hour. So, I further narrowed the reasons for this violence – certain media outlets are far more edgy than others – some I don't even know about. Now we're getting closer to a source of this.

I recalled back in 2009 a game, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. I didn't enjoy the series, so I didn't buy it. I hard stories of a certain, unrelated part of the game (fully passable, no achievements or glory for finishing it) which had you go through an airport murdering everyone. I saw a friend play it, and was pretty well mortified for the first thirty seconds. The scene begins with you and six of your allies walking into a pretty well-crowded checking area; twenty or so people were between you and the metal detectors, all in a jumbled mess, with no real order. As your weapons become visible, and for the instant before your allies open fire, the game silences everything, and everyone's face has a conglomeration of horror and confusion. Then the slugs start burying themselves in the first few people, piercing through into the next people behind them. As the screams erupt, I noticed a child falling to the ground with blood spurting into the air. The next minute and a half my friend walked through the airport, destroying hundreds of people. The music was intense, and your allies were hurrying you on, talking about a deadline to make.

I couldn't keep watching it. My friend kept playing, and I was horrified. I asked him how, and he responded, “it's just a game... this isn't real”. And it hit me: for 330 million people, it's just a game. Most of this world can separate the game from reality. But that game sold over 10 million copies. The way people share games, I’d say this game has been played by over seventy-five million people in America. I bite my nails in concern over the five or thirty people who cannot see the divide between game and reality – whose lives, effected solely by their willing isolation and indoctrination by a media unaware of its effect, find no divide in their only experience with the world (violence and immortality of the player) and the real world which the media mocks.

“But JHBlancs, you're being a parent. Video games don't make people violent, there are other factors! Leave video games alone, man.” (read: let me be comfortable in my denial.)

My friend, You are probably alright. I'd guess the demographic that reads my blog would be the demographic which would not commit an act of violence. I'm not even saying that video games are the only source of this condoning; it is in the jokes between people, in the humor over this world. Violence, when the catch is made that “nobody is harmed permanently”, is hilarious in this day and age. This generation finds a thrill in the escapism of the game and the humor. It is when the very few decide to enact that humor in real life that people back up, look at each other, and call him a monster.

And that is the crux of the matter. It is the small bit of monster in all of us, the once-in-a-blue-moon monstrous behavior that finds its way through the darker channels of the internet and media to these potential murderers. It is the cold shoulder we give to that one random person, and 99% of the time goes nowhere. But that 1% of the time, the rejection sticks with the person.

So where to go from here? A bomb seems to have set this country askew; a spray of bullets did the same thing last December. Through all of this, this world seems to be coming less stable; as if the violence perpetrated in our own lives sinks into the soil. Iran suffered a 7.8 magnitude earthquake; China just got hit with a 6.6 magnitude an hour ago. The vegetation recedes as deserts grow. The life of this planet seems to be choked out by the inevitability of climate and the stubborn advance of humanity.

In this darkness, oh could there shine a hero?

Yes. You. Me. We cannot change the Earth's attitude, though we can change the people's. We can show that a bullet will not change this world, nor will a bomb. An Earthquake will not shatter the soul, though it may break the bone and body. So how do we effect change?

In a word, grace. Do not let the evil push you to apathy. Do not let the hatred in this world bring you to nihilism. Stand firm against a wave of hate, meet rage with open arms and kindness. Find the broken, and show them a firm foundation. Be the change you want to see. You don't even have to be Christian, just be humane. Don't honk the horn when you're angry; don't ignore an angry face; do not leave debts unsettled; do not ignore a person going through hardships; do not be apathetic.

Just because we're broken does not mean that two or three people cannot operate together to become a force for good. With a God behind us, we can change the world. Or, if you wish to do this without one, then go with a group of friends and show kindness to strangers. Either way, the challenge of our generation is to shine kindness in a world of dark hatred. 

Glory of God - I Am A Door Holder.

Hey guys, I don't commonly urge things upon people, as I usually don't involve myself with things that are both beneficial to the soul and universally enjoyed. Passion City's the difference. This night at 6:45, i was outside in the rain parking cars, and i had the most intimate moment with God that i've had in a while. While a particularly intense parking situation (bus was coming, cars were piling up, nobody was moving), God came to me, and filled me with joy.

The cold rain turned warm, and my happiness tripled as i began singing that good old song, I'll Fly Away. I had no rain jacket, and was wet to my skin. The cars went through, and we got in early. As i was a pneumonia magnet, i took off as many layers as i decently could and got my poetry book out, and cranked out a beautiful 5 lines of grace. I saw two of my friends that I haven't seen in a long while, and heard a beautiful message. The exit of the crowd was smoother, due in part to my having a rain jacket then. One the way back home, i listened to Tomlin's "Shepherd Boy" song all the way back, and after dropping him off, proceeded to praise God for the next half hour.

I'm not a hero of the faith,
I'm not as strong as i thought i was,
I'm just a shepher boy,
Singin' to a choir of burnin' lights...

Guys, my week is crowned by my being on the parking team, bringing God the glory rain or shine. Being a Door Holder has strengthened me in my walk with God, and I've grown to love him more and more every week i go. The amazing part is, the tougher my job is as a parking team member, the better - because that means more people are there. If you're not a Door Holder, Then let this be the one time I urge you to drop everything you do and become one. His glory shines through you, friends. It *shines*.

Preparation for Freedom Speeches (Jan 19th)

January 19, 2013

Awake, awake, awake my soul!

God, resurrect these bones,

From death, to life,

from You alone, awake my soul!

I'm going to go a little in-depth about what I’ve done so far; by no means is this all I’ve done. Today I’m doing nothing but homework, so I might as well work on this for an hour.

As soon as I realized I could use my voice, I typed up a fiery sermon, all on my own, using the information in my head. The caustic nature of the sermon was birthed from my deepest hatred of slavery, and I rejected the sermon (I put it up on Reddit and my blog, to general fanfare) due to its unsavory nature.

It was at this moment I realized (a week ago) that I needed other people's help. I thus went to my campus ministry (KSU-SPSU BCM) and asked their help. On the 14^th, I got a wealth of information from my campus minister (Dave Stewart), and said that I would start Wednesday.

The 16^th was the busiest day I've ever had on my own accord. Sure, I’ve had busier days because of other people's prerogatives, but this day had me going all across the campus getting information, and quickly categorizing the types of need per campus. I never have before made a checklist, let alone *completed* one.

Advertisement and reservation information: I need to know where and how I can put up advertisements. This means I need someone to talk to the campus student services center (at my school, it's called Student Life) to get the papers to allow this. Most reservation systems are online, and only take a faculty member to allow for it; others require only a student's signing up (SPSU's system is thankfully lenient). Advertisement policies generally get more strict as the campus size increases, as I have deduced from comparing SPSU's and KSU's policies.

Body of believers: I've only seen one college where Christian organizations get their own page (Reinhardt, I love you for the simplicity. Now, if your organization student leaders can get back to me, I can get the ball rolling). In most cases, you simply must connect to a larger body (a church, alma mater, and your own college ministry) to find a connection into a campus. Otherwise, you must go to the campus itself cold, as I did with Life University, and find the organizations yourself via said Student Services center. I have not yet found a campus without a Christian Organization; if none exists, feel free to create one, and let God order your steps in its managing.

The speech itself: I feel this is what I will be least prepared for, no matter how much work I put into the presentation. This is all on me, and thus I am most unsure.

A Story from the Redditubes

I come with a praise today. A friend of mine on the /r/Christianity subreddit posted two days ago that he was going to kill himself with his rifle. Yesterday, he didn't say *anything*. Last night, i was awake all night with cold shivers, terrified of his fate, praying to God that he'd be saved from this mistake. 

This man's pastor called the man when his rifle was in his mouth, and instinctively knew something was wrong. He stayed on the phone the entire way till he knocked on the man's door. He was shown the love of God, and this morning he looked at my and my friends' declarations of prayer and consolation. He's now given his life entirely over to Christ, saying, "My life is no where near done, at least by my own hands."

God is alive and saving people, for His mysterious and glorious aims. I'm grateful for God's work in this man's life, and pray that He continues to save millions of people who's stories don't make it to the news as a body, but whose stories touch the hearts and lives of simple, depraved men such as myself.

Slavery

My friends, today I come with a brutal, cheerless introduction to my message. God has aligned my heart to the cause of freedom, and the spreading of this cause. Many of us went to Passion 2013, and were awakened to a very brutal, horrifying truth in this world. I was awakened last year, in Passion 2012, though I was so stunned I pushed it from memory, fearful of its truth. Many of you know already what I’m talking about, but don't know the severity of this issue. The disgusting truth I speak of is modern-day slavery. Let me throw up some statistics, though I’ll ask you not to think of them later.

27 million: a ballpark estimate, which I am convinced is higher. All over the world, these people are oppressed – silenced, their bodies becoming someone's profit, their hands becoming someone else's factory, working twelve-to-fourteen hours a day, with no breaks, every day with no respite in sight.

80% women – half of which are children – are oppressed in the sex trafficking of this world.

$32 Billion – that's the number of a black market whose revenue is greater than Google's.

But these statistics don't really effect you. Numbers can be ignored. There are stories, though; several people have been rescued, their voices raising to call out other instances of this horror. I'm sorry, but this is the only way to really vocalize this:

Children are being raped. Little girls, fifty percent of which are younger than any of you in this room, are being sold for sex. There were women who were saved recently from a brothel dungeon – a dark, damp clay basement, where they only left to be raped and thrown back in – these were thirty girls. There are entire families bonded by heredity, working in a brick factory, for their entire lives. A woman who went to France for work was sent over the border and told she would give sex to men for someone else's profit. For her entire life. Yes, this gets very, very disturbing.

I don't need a Bible verse to tell you and I that this is wrong: its very nature is disgusting, depraved and debasing of the very basic nature of humanity. But here's an imperative God gave to a man named Isaiah. In chapter 61 of this book, it is spoken: (speak)

Don't you see? It's not just freedom; these people who were enslaved will rise up, take control of their countries under God's banner, and rebuild. India, Nepal, the United States of America... that last on hit me hard – there're slaves in America? Indeed, friends. Atlanta is a hub of sex trafficking – an estimated 17 thousand people are trafficked through America annually, and only thirteen other American cities beat us out for the top hub. We may actually be higher on that list – the numbers aren't available on the web.

This is on our soil, this ain't an isolated thing over in India because India is a horrible place. In Kentucky, a month ago (change this to however long ago Dec 21 is), a man was arrested for enslaving three young girls. These girls had tattoos on their necks and left breasts, put on by himself, that has his name. They were ordered to call him “daddy”. The neck tattoo was placed here, and was meant to control the girls: tell them that no matter where they went, they would be his. On their backs was a full back tattoo depicting this man's twisted creed, binding these girls to servitude in him – as if his vile ink could make them his. This man was imprisoned with three life sentences, though I’d give him more.

So how do we respond? The cause of freedom is fivefold: Awake, Prevent, Rescue, and Restore.

On the awakening front, I’m standing before you. America is still quite quiet to this atrocity, and we've got a mission to awaken them. And America's the land of the free. Engage in Slavery Footprint, which will tell you how many slaves you have working for you, based on the products you wear, use, and eat. I have 34 slaves working for me. After that, it gives you many options for engaging in ending it, and awakening other people.

The Polaris Project has a slavery hotline, which right now, I’m going to ask every single one of you to pull out your phones and put this number in: 1-888-3737-888.

From that point comes prevention – that many organization are already doing: the A21 Campaign and Not For Sale in Thailand, Free the Slaves in Ghana, World Relief in Cambodia, Stella's Voice in Moldova. America, being the land of the free, can prevent without the need for organizations, but that slavery hotline will mean that I may have just saved you guys from slavery. Share this with your friends, and we can lay a mat of prevention, stopping slavery from taking root in an more victims.

Onto Rescue: International Justice Mission is all over the world bringing freedom to everyone. Thursday, January 3, 2013, 61 people were freed in India. Other organizations that do the same are Tiny hands International, Bombay Teen Challenge, Out of Darkness, and Free the Slaves.

Recovery's another issue, and one that I can help you help immediately. There's a petition online to pass a Safe Harbor law in Georgia, allowing for girls who are arrested in brothel raids in Georgia to be sent to recovery centers, rather than the juvenile detention centers they would go to. Right now, minors and women in brothels in Georgia are simply criminals, not given a voice. They are tried and incarcerated. This law would allow for leniency: if slavery is implied in the crime, the women will be given recovery. In America, this means Wellspring Living's houses, where women can readjust to the world free from slavery. Warm Blankets Orphan Care, Ratanak Care, She is Safe, Love146, Hagar International, 10/40 Connections, and the A21 Campaign all offer the same protection.

I can go on for hours about each of these campaigns; these are only nineteen of hundreds. They all need your funding. But all of these campaigns have stressed awareness over funding, for they know that it's more important that we know. As Gary Haugen said, “Awareness is action”

But I have one more step in the Cause of Freedom. Prayer. We can't do this without God. Judah Smith made a comment at Passion 2013, talking about shark week. One show featured the behavior of sharks: they tossed out rubber seal mimics into the sea, several clustered together, the other all alone. And they waited. After a long while, a great white came clean out of the water with the lone seal mimic in its mouth. I can't do this alone, which is why I’m here. I'm asking for your help. More importantly, I’m asking for God's help. Together, we are a force for good. Let's pray.

Hatred

Today, I learned two particular traits of my character. One is a simple one that stems from my Christian morality, and the other is very much against it.

After a kind lady accidentally polished the right rear bumper of my father's minivan with her SUV, I found myself unable to say “she did it”. All three of us (the police officer, her and I) knew who was at fault, yet I could not say the words. We left without blame being verbally given to either party.

Later, I asked my mother who the terrible counselor was in middle school. This man's method of counseling my troubled soul was to pressure my until I acted in a way that fit the misbehavior I came there for. He would then deem me “unstable” and consider his work done. He is the main reason Pisgah asked me to leave in sixth grade. My mother told me this man was Bryan Smyth.

Now, for those who don't go to Pisgah, when that school eventually gets a glimmer of intelligence and fires him, please don't hire him on as a counselor. In fact, don't give him any position of authority. The man is a Pharisee. I’m sure most of Pisgah's issues can be traced back to some authoritative decision he made. I can go on for a long time about how worthless he is.

The above paragraph probably tells you everything you need to know about my second trait in character. At this moment, I cannot forgive this man; my memory, although faded, of his abuse of my childhood makes me apt to have this stain his career and life. I’m seriously vindictive for this man.

This man is the first to really hurt me. I don't remember anyone who has damaged, besides him. I’m going to school tomorrow, and if I see him, I will do my best. My goal is not him, anyway; I’m merely going to see a friend. 

A Brimstone Prophecy

I have come to an interesting point in my life, which I am sure will stick with me. It has just hit me that Christ not only raised to life and is now in Heaven, but that He will return. He won't return passively, either – no baby, we're talking a flaming-eyed, white horse-riding, glorious Jesus coming back to Earth as the ultimate conqueror. I can only pray for the world when this happens; if our bodies suffer so under the strain of supporting our souls, what strain when this small world becomes host to the King of the Universe?

This is what causes Christians to stand on a street corner and yell the gospel of a brimstone revival coming. It's tempting for us to do such things, which isn't exactly the best PR statement. This is also, I guess, where intolerance for Christians comes from: we are excited and called to share the message, because this end is coming.

This was a short post today. I’m going to read Revelation now. In future posts, I will be going through all the inconsistencies in the Bible and showing the truth in the perceived lies and errors. 

Fiction in the Light of God

It is noted that a Christian man, once he has and has been embraced and confirmed in the Holy Spirit, cannot dream of a secular life. Even fiction, the realm of the imagination without the bounds of physics, reality, and super-reality, becomes invaded by this Greater Truth. For me, I cannot dream nor create great epics spanning universes, realities, cultures, and humanities without inserting a God which wouldn't allow for such fantasies. This is not to say that God is prohibiting me from dreaming these fictions – much in the same way that the misconception of Christianity's being a limiting ideal, this thought is simply a misconception, requiring another perception of the same issue.

As a Christian, God makes me cheerful. Nothing makes me more ecstatic than making Him proud. Unfortunately, it is this love for Him that poisons my fiction. I cannot write a humanist piece without a God that follows His example. Furthermore, there's no radical fiction I can formulate about Him, because He already created it. I feel at times when I attempt to create fiction, I come to three blockages:

God: I need to insert Him into all my pieces. I feel awful writing secular pieces, because I have a God who gives me the ability to write it. If you had a wealthy benefactor who gives you every second of your life, everything you own, everything you are, wouldn't you mention an archetype of Him in your pieces? There's a book series out, starting with Dragon Spell, which contains a character who follows God's archetype. He is a Jesus character who is all-powerful, yet unboastful in his power. The first book ends with his victory, and the book tries to set up a sequel. Yet as soon as his character entered the story, I knew the story was doomed. How can there be suspense when there's a God character? I never read the other books, because I knew the God archetype had to be nullified in order to create suspense, and that though made a bad feeling in my gut. God's omniscience and omnipotence instantly ruins a suspenseful dialogue.

“But Blancs,” you may say, “The gospels were a horror story before Christ resurrected!” Yes, they were. But then He was raised to life. There's no suspense in that story now because the end of the story is known before you understand the build up. Any story with God, now, ruins itself on the entrance of Him, because we all expect Him to be victorious instantly. I could kill God, but then that would be slapping my benefactor in the face. I’m not bout to insult my God like that.

Pride: my fictions have me as the protagonist, because I know myself, and I can easily explain my character. The problem with this is when I make myself exalted, thus pre-empting God in my imagination. It's a problem I’ve had in life, and it's transferring to my fiction.

God vs. Secularism: God's love is an amazing story. Writing about anything less seems anticlimactic.

I’d do everything in my power to rephrase this, but I see no other conclusion: my love relationship with God is poisoning my imagination. I cannot think of anything but Him. I want to, I have so many amazing stories dreamt in my youth, though I cannot recreate those in lieu of the Glory I recognize now. My poetry is excelling, though I am still excited for my old fictions. The Lost Lord of Cutre'ton, an old fiction of mine, is considered my greatest work in my eyes.

I pray for a reconciliation with my God, so that I may write these fictions to His glory.  

Why Keep the Law?

In recent weeks, I have become quite irritated with Reddit. Many people, time and time again, scholarly and non-scholarly, have questioned Grace in the light of, “Why aren't we following the laws in the Bible?” To this, I give them the rough account of the gospel. I then say, “But the laws are still good for us to follow,” to which they scoff, and then either denounce me for being double-minded or express confusion at what is perceived to be a lack of understanding on the subject.

I have complete assurance on the subject. Whereas I may be a man who I subject to change, the Bible is not, nor is the God who wrote it. The subject of the Old Law is well-spelled out. Let me dust off my Bible...

6 Jesus told him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.”

This still leaves ambiguity in the air; how does one come to Jesus?

17 “Don’t assume that I came to destroy the Law or the Prophets. I did not come to destroy but to fulfill.”

Okay, so we can rule out “through the law”, because nary fifty words later, Jesus destroys that thought:

20 ““For I tell you, unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

This is where one would start biting their nails. At this point, people lost their Law. Several points elsewhere in the gospel, Jesus personally denounces the scribes and Pharisees. But that's just it: The Old Law had failed. That's the most uncomfortable sentence I’ve typed in a very long time. I like my laws; American law keeps me somewhat safe. International laws keep us safer. I look back in the Old Law, where it calls homosexuality a sin worthy of stoning, and this statement seems not to reconcile itself with wisdom, justice, and love.

God spoke to Moses, who then went back to his people and, amongst other things, says those exact words. Yet a few thousand years later, Grace shows us that all sins are equal (one sin in your lifetime is worthy of damnation; I have sinned much more than that). The Lost Son an the son who stayed with his father all that time were shown the same amount of love by the Prodigal Father.

I think I have an answer (from this point on, I am speculating. I cannot say that I have any authority to say what God intends, as I am not a scholar and only opinionate on God after much thought), which takes us to the beginning. God started with two people (I will tackle evolutionary theory later. For the sake of Biblical accuracy, I will assert two people), who He gave one rule to. For crying out loud, God walked in the garden. He had a relationship with Adam and Eve.

Then the first two fell. Sin wasn't even a word yet, and yet we humans did it. God stayed with His Creation, though, through the flood. God knew that humans weren't ready for Grace, but He needed this to prove to future generations. The flood came and went, and we fast forward a bit to Moses. Moses stayed on the mountain for forty or so days, and I think this is what happened between Moses and God up there (Note: This is only comedic. I know it didn't happen like this, but I’m just showing how humans weren't ready for Grace):

God: <Grace>

Moses: huh?

God: <Shows Moses how Grace works>

Moses: huh?

God: <Fills Moses' head with Grace>

Moses: Wait, wait... what do we do in <this case>?

God: <Still showing Moses the glory of Grace>

Moses: Let me grab a pen, I’ll need to write some rules down. I’m not gonna remember this “Grace” thing

God: <Ten Commandments>

Moses goes down, sees the idol worship, breaks the tablets over his knee, stomps back up to the mountain top.

Moses: Yeah... We're gonna need more rules.

God: <Slaps hand on head in frustration, tells Moses exactly what a human needs to do to be saved>

Moses: Okay... Got that... Talk a little slower, please... Got that... how many lambs? Okay... What about this kind of person? Okay...

Then Moses went down and God took some Prozac, and listened to Moses giving the law to the people. He knew full well that the laws weren't going to work, but human weren't ready for Grace. They would, however, be ready for Laws, which would build humans up to a sophistication enough to understand why grace was better. Furthermore, why the laws failed. Jesus came at the exact right time; the scribes and pharisees were unrighteously pious, and the people were becoming paralyzed trying to get to Heaven. The relationship God had with His people had all but died. Furthermore, thanks to the stability of the Roman Empire (amongst other factors with I think God alone has a license to understanding), humans were ready for Grace.

Grace is like the theory of relativity, or even something simpler, like gravity, or magnetism. These theories were only recently understood, because we have only recently reached the level of sophistication to understand them. God couldn't give us grace, because we haven't mastered other aspects of life. You need to understand the structure of the atom before unraveling the mysteries thereof. In a much different sense, computers weren't even thought of back in Jesus' time. Now, I’m typing on a computer while it is scanning itself for specific malicious programs, playing music, and checking several times a second for Twitter, Facebook, and Reddit updates. We are much more sophisticated in the sense that we have built on our past.

Much like ourselves now, we needed to see that the Old Ways weren't working as well as the New Way back when Jesus came. We can now no longer say “why not just tell us Grace from the beginning”, or “Why not just gives us laws and be done with this 'interpreting scripture' thing?” for God did that. And He proved the Old Law failed. For, laws let us find ways to circumvent them. Grace is impassable. It is no longer about rules, it is about the intent of following them.

So, why still follow these rules? I don't recommend following the Old Law, as those laws were written to a culture over two-thousand years past. They're still somewhat applicable, but I would suggest ascribing to the laws of the current land. I would take that instead of anarchism, any day. Also, Jesus did come to fulfill the purpose of the Law (making yourself worthy in God's eye), so if you follow Jesus' teachings, then no law should go against you. 

Recovery

I am somewhat pained today, as I have lost something which has been with me for as long as I can remember. I've always found joy in this world. I've always found love. I've always seen God, heard Him and enjoyed His presence.

Ever since my recent stance of abstinence from pornography (which I pray daily to Him to give me the strength to prolong), I've been weak. An eight hour sleep leaves me restless, and today's by far the worst. I woke up aching, went to class aching, and now I am tired. Yesterday I was on the parking team at Passion city (love those guys), and my tiredness graciously softened while I was there.

I had hoped that strength would continue with me. It frightens me that this addiction was my strength for so long, and now I am weak without it. It worries me that I put so much of my life into this addiction, without realizing it. It panics me that even now, today, as I open the Bible, I cannot see the truth in it, only words. My eyes gloss over the beautiful lyrics of this immortal song, its glorious joy translating to apathy in my head.

Similarly, my poetry has suffered. It disgusts me to think that my inspiration came from God, while my strength came from pornography, for I know that is not the case. I think this is something like a heroin addiction, where a natural chemical your body needs is replaced by the drug, and if you take away the unnatural chemical, your body either dies or goes through a horrific recovery. Thankfully, this is a calmer recovery.

I’ll need your prayers that my poetic inspiration returns. I don't want for a quicker or lighter recovery, for I deserve much worse for the damage I have wrought on myself. I do ask for the inspiration - the songs of God - to return to me and ignite my passion again, for those are not my own. I can only humbly ask for the Almighty to deem me worthy to borrow His words. If people can see that God chooses this man who was so enslaved by pornography, pride and lust to the point that his recovery physically and mentally harms him... if God can choose a chief of sinners such as myself to bring the world His Song, then people who have been hurt much more than I can see that there's a place in His Heaven for them.

For, Jesus did not come to His Creation for the saved, He came for the sinners.

Pornography.

I’ve got a personal post for today. For the past seven months, I have written half of this post, then scrapped it in shame. I would write it again, only to despise the way I wrote it. The subject is one that has plagued me for years, since I was much too young to know the damage it would do. The world glorifies it, and I was pulled in by its allure. I am a porn addict.

 There is not much else to say, besides that I am quite embarrassed by the fact. Time and time again I have attempted to change it. I could not ask forgiveness from God, for I knew I would just commit the sin again – greedily and pridefully so – and I am much too grounded in honor to ask forgiveness for a sin I will repeat. I have had many, many deviances in real life based on this basest of degradations, and I have yet to ask for forgiveness for the lives I have wrecked. This is because, for the longest time, I knew for a fact – a cold, solid fact – that, given the chance, I would wreck someone else's life, for those minutes of prideful satisfaction. This kind of degradation has been my life for my entire teenage life.

Almost a month ago, I took a change. I came to terms with my inability to change my life alone, and found a painful way to overcome the addiction. There is accountability software – the fact that the only source that feeds my addiction comes from the internet makes it very easy to stifle. I have been free of the addiction for a little over two weeks now, and it is still a painful thing to endure.

A word on the nature of addiction: I rejected that I was addicted, for I could stop myself after only committing the sin for a small time. Addiction works with Satan. It is a coping mechanism for troubles, usurping the Godly Throne of admitting your mistakes and taking the blame and problems. It is a roost for the ones who come to it first looking for escape. After that first time, Addiction calls them back, saying always “one more time”. Then, addiction becomes the friend the likes of which you'll never need an enemy, nor see any. Any time you come under confrontation, Addiction calms you and detaches you.

You never see the desensitization to the world you live in, no. Addiction makes sure of that. You are never brought to awareness of the degradation in your life, under Addiction's spell. You simply don't observe it, for as soon as you think on the subject, Addiction simply turns you to it again. And you sin.

I feel I can say with confidence, after many, many years of flying under Addiction's banners, that I have finally risen from the depths of Addiction. I’ve burned the banners an replaced them with God's. I thank the people responsible for helping me to this change (my parents especially), and I am ashamed I did not post this sooner.

Matthew 9:37-38

“Better is one day in Your courts than a thousand elsewhere; I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked.” Psalm 84:10

This is the scripture that Door Holders at Passion City Church use to explain their role. A Door Holder sees the glory inside, and chooses to hold the door open for others to experience it. This seems to be the mantra that PCC works by.

Today, I was with several Christian friends at a Steak n Shake, and we started talking about various churches. Passion City came up in conversation, and a very condemning thing was said about my home church: it doesn't really serve. It is a brand. It is the experience of worship. The church asks for my money, and for amazing things, and it deals with massive, weighty issues – but I attend the church, and I have not one time served the needy in the area.

Passion City is “for God, for People, for the City, for the World.” I feel the church as a whole narrows on the onerous “world” problems, while neglecting the people around it. Either that, or I haven't been queued into the monthly service events that PCC serves the community in. PCC has a periodic free dinner for their college-aged attendees – no! PCC has special gatherings for its collegiates – NO!

Passion City Church has such a large congregation of people that we only ask to come for one service a week. There are smaller events that aren't run directly by Passion that bear its name – fan-groups, if you will – but for the most part I feel that people attend this church because it is an unparalleled worship experience. Because they are not told of opportunities to serve there, they go home thinking there aren't any. Instead of asking them to find these opportunities on their own, why not find them?

I would rather go out with my Passion family to the tents of the wicked. I get the feeling this verse silently continues,

“Though Your courts are open to all, and I will spend a thousand days in the tents of the wicked, and be the doorkeeper to them when they come to Your courts.”(Non Scriptura)

Passion City Church is a force for God in this world, and I want the best for it. To do this, I will direct more of my energies to helping the city around me, and telling them about Passion. While doing this, I will lobby for Passion to do the same. Matthew 9:37-38 depicts this beautifully:

Then he said to his disciples, "The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field." Matthew 9:37-38

I will leave on this. This last passage is my aim in life. I wan to be that worker. If you know a way for this message to get to Louie or anyone working on Passion's staff, please send this to them. I do not want to send it myself, for I feel it would be an affront to the humble nature I strive to attain in this world of pride. I will stay late next Sunday, asking for an ear.